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“I’m in love with someone, and he doesn’t love me back… and I can’t stay here,” I say right as Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”starts playing at high volume, and I groan.
“You’re quitting college because of a guy? What the fuck is that noise? Turn it off,” he shouts, and this is when I start laughing, or maybe I’m crying, doesn’t matter. He can’t handle two seconds of this when I’ve been dealing with this song that Skylar has had on repeat blast for days?
“It’s noise torture.” I laugh, then sob. “Skylar is a vicious bitch.”
“Go outside,” he demands.
My eyes widen at her as she walks into the kitchen. That smile she’s had lately makes the acid rise in my esophagus.
“Jude, let me call you back. I need to have a word with Skylar.”
“Tell that bitch to shut that shit off–”
“I’ll call you back.”
When I hang up, she smirks and says, “Morning.”
“Turn it off,” I demand, my hand clenching the phone as I watch her sashay in and pour herself a cup of coffee.
“My house, my music.” She arches a waxed brow as she brings the mug to her lips. Her bright red lipstick, no doubt recently applied, smudges on the cup.
I take another deep breath and visualize knocking that mug of steaming coffee out of her hand and smiling at her as she shrieks at how I just ruined her perfect white blouse and navy slacks.
Instead, I pick up my bowl of cereal and walk over to the sink.I will not give her the satisfaction of engaging,I chant inwardly, rinsing the bowl.
“So I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. You’re making the right decision,” she yells over Celine’s high note as I turn off the water.
“I swear to God, Skylar, what is wrong with you? Why do you hate me?”
“What?” She motions that she can’t hear.
Psycho bitch. I’m out of here. Mission accomplished. I pull open the dishwasher, dump the bowl in, grab my phone, and walk to my room.
“I’d rather sleep in my car before I stay here any longer,” I yell back at her, only to have that fucking song thankfully stop.
At least, I think it has. My ears are ringing, and it’s still playing in my head.
“God, he really did a number on you, huh?” She leans against my doorframe.
Rolling my eyes, I throw my closet doors open and grab one of my suitcases.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I hiss because I refuse for her to know anything. It doesn’t take a genius to know I’m in hell, but I’m not telling her that.
“You remind me of your mother,” she states as if she’s lecturing in the classroom. It’s so out of left field I actually stop unzipping my bag to look at her.
“Wait. What?”
“You. Remind. Me. Of your mother.”
“Okay?” Suddenly exhausted, I throw my arms up, and it’s not even eight o’clock yet.
“Your mother stolemy father, which destroyed my mom, my family, my life,” she explodes and walks fully into my room. “And then our dad has the audacity to send you, one of his spawns fromher,to live withme?” Her voice becomes louder.
“Well, I’m leaving, so relax.” My voice cracks from days of crying. That, and it hurts saying it out loud. Deep inside, I’m still hoping.
Pathetic. Stupid. Love.
I sniff, which is borderline impossible with my nose as stuffed as it is. I’ve cried so much I’m not sure I’ll ever breathe the same again.
